The Smell Of Sacred Cows Burning, Or Why You Should Always Look On The Bright Side Of (Public Sector) Life.

I feel positively geriatric. Not only is the final landing of the Discovery space shuttle shown on tonight's news, but I recall watching its first-ever launch. And why does everyone keep talking about retirement?

"What's your pension like?" says Max this morning, as we leave the house. Late, because we've overslept again.

"God knows," I say. "Probably rubbish, seeing as the House of Commons have changed their minds about the provider at least three times since I started work."

"Well, it could be worse," says Max. "You could work in the Private Sector - like me."

Aargh. I've spent hours over the last few weeks listening to constituents complaining about their pensions, from every possible angle. Those who have got Public Sector pensions are furious at proposals to make them less generous; while those who haven't are enraged by the notion of the former's entitlement to final salary pay-outs. Not to mention by the statistics on relative pay across both groups.

Honestly, casework has such a nasty habit of making you question sacred cows, not that this is the moment to start having yet another existential crisis about my political beliefs. Better just to carry on as if Max hadn't even mentioned the Private Sector. 

"Well, never mind about that," I say. "Seeing as you were really asking about my pension. Let's just say that the definition of 'actively managed' means different things to different people."

In the olden days when I first started working for The Boss, the House of Commons gave MPs a list of 'approved providers' that their staff's pensions contributions could be paid into. All pretty simple, except that, almost as soon as my pension was set up, the company running it was bought out.

My scheme was closed to new entrants, and a crash and burn approach was adopted towards those of us who were stuck in the damn thing; so the only benefit to arise from that experience was an increased ability to empathise with all the constituents who've been affected by the Equitable Life debacle. Not that empathy has proved to be of much comfort to anyone so far.

After that, the *HOC had the bright idea of allowing staff to choose their own stakeholder pensions - so I took advice from the union, who organised for me to join a new scheme. It was a bit of a pain having two pensions statements to try to decipher - seeing as I am clueless about anything financial - but at least the new provider didn't seem quite as determined to lose all my money as the original one was.

Problem therefore neatly solved - for all of a year - until those idiots in the *Fees Office decided that too many MPs' staff were still not bothering to set up their pensions. This was blamed, not on the terminal apathy of the staff involved, but on the system being too demanding for them to cope with. (Which rather begs the question of whether they were fit to work for MPs in the first place, but I suppose that's a different story.)

Anyway, the result was the creation of the Portcullis Pension Plan, which meant I had to move my contributions yet again - a nightmare that took absolutely months. (Though it presumably wasn't considered as demanding a process as simply getting off your arse and signing up for one of the earlier pension plans would have been - unless I'm just bitter. Which I might be.)

And I bet this won't be the end of it, either - but I do wish they'd just leave our pensions well alone. By now I have absolutely no idea where I'll stand when I retire, because I can't make head nor tail of all the letters I get from different pension providers, except that the word 'growth' seems to be conspicuous by its absence from all of them. I bet George Osborne knows exactly how I feel.

So I'm not feeling too guilty about my supposedly fool-proof public sector pension by the time I get around to explaining it to Max. Who'll probably have left me by the time I can claim it, anyway - due to the beard, if nothing else.

"All I know is that the original pension is now worth less than a tenth of what it was at the end of my first year in the job," I say. "So I wouldn't exactly count on it to fund any trips to Thailand. Or even to Sainsbury's, for that matter."

Max looks horrified - which is a particularly unflattering facial expression that I'm starting to get used to, ever since his boss sent out the redundancy notices.

"Well, what on earth are we going to do if I don't get a job in one of the other stores, then?" he says. "If I end up unemployed at my age, I might never work again. I'll probably be featured in a Panorama programme in ten years' time, hugely obese and eating a McDonalds while watching The Jeremy Kyle Show."

Now there's something to look forward to. Honestly, it's getting harder and harder to follow Mum's edict to always look on the bright side of life. Especially when Max and I seem to have spent the last two days talking about nothing but pensions. Where the hell's the romance in that?

I'm actually quite relieved when I arrive at work, for once - even though the first caller is Richard Bloody Levinson. At least he provides a change of subject.

"Did you see that bloke from the Police on TV last night - moaning about bonuses being cut?' he says. "Why do people get bonuses just for doing their bloody jobs? And they're paid more than firemen! These people make me sick. Join the real world, that's what I say."

By which he means the world of The Daily Telegraph, but never mind. I can cope with anything today, as long as it doesn't involve the dreaded P word.

I make a non-committal grunt, partly so as not to interrupt Richard's train of thought, and partly to allow me to swallow the Haribos Greg's just given me for breakfast.

"And as for these other public sector workers demanding no change to their ruddy gold-plated pensions, don't even get me started on them," he says. "Which includes you and your lot, I suppose. What's the matter with you all? Don't you even know how lucky you are?"

"Um, yes," I say. Which Mum would be very pleased about. I can almost hear her humming the tune.



*HOC - House of Commons, as usual.
*Fees Office - House of Commons Department of Finance & Administration. Used to be responsible for payment of salaries and allowances etc, which functions are now the role of IPSA

Come Back, Norman Tebbit: Worryingly, All Is Apparently Forgiven.

Oh my God. When are politicians going to learn to recognise shades of grey? I despair, really I do. And I have no idea what is happening to my politics.

Today I manage to fall out with Pete Carew, the deputy leader of Northwick Council. I do wish he wouldn't sneak into the office like that. I've just got off the phone to one of the council officers, who has made a major cock-up by revealing the name of a noise nuisance complainant to the perpetrator.

This was despite the fact that the complainant had been assured his identity would be protected in future because, last time he complained, he was subjected to death threats and vandalism, which the Police are actually treating very seriously.

The council officer is so defensive about his stupid error, that I almost lose my temper during the conversation. When he's not making pathetic excuses, he resorts to monosyllabic responses to very straight questions. It's like trying to get blood out of a stone.

As soon as I've hung up, I shout through to Greg's office:

"God almighty, Greg. When are the Council going to get some bloody competent staff? Some of this lot wouldn't last five minutes in the private sector."

"Hey, Molly," says Pete. "What's with all the public sector bashing? It's the bankers' fault, as well you know."

"God - where did you come from?" I say. "I didn't know you were here. And anyway, I'm not bashing the public sector. Not as a whole."

"Well, it sounded like it to me," says Pete. "I've worked in it for thirty-five years and I'm bloody proud of what I've done."

"Well, you work hard, Pete," I say.

That's where I should end the conversation, but for some insane reason I don't. Instead, I continue:

"But I can't help thinking it'd be bloody refreshing if someone in the Party would acknowledge - just for once - that not everyone who works in the public sector does a good job in return for taxpayer's money. Or has an essential job. Constituents know that's not the case."

"Humph," is Pete's considered reply.

Honestly, when will people learn that trying to defend the indefensible really pisses the public off? And me, actually. I worry a lot about the dangers to the economic recovery of cutting jobs, (especially as Max is much more likely to lose his job than is Pete), but I don't see how pretending that every bloody job is essential, or being done well, helps to protect anyone.

There follows a predictably ill-tempered argument, which ends up with Pete asking me how on earth I can say any of this when I work for a Labour MP; and me saying that that is precisely the reason why I am saying it - due to the fact that I am exposed to constituents' often well-founded complaints about incompetence within the public sector on a daily basis.

But I'm apparently supposed to believe that there are no public sector jobs which could be cut without negatively affecting the public. I can think of one council officer who wouldn't be missed, straight off the top of my head, but this doesn't go down well at all when I mention it. In fact, I'm sure Pete mutters "fascist" under his breath as he takes his leave.

Greg has been mouthing "shut up" at me throughout, the bloody hypocrite. He's suddenly become very party political since he found out he was the one going to conference this year. Usually he takes the view that you could sack half the public sector and never notice the difference, and he's always reading out stupid public sector job titles, and ranting about the salaries.

Now it'll be me that the local party is moaning about, rather than The Boss, for a change. I shall have to pour oil on troubled waters once I've calmed down - but that's going to take a while. "Fascist" was completely uncalled-for. I'm no fan of the bankers, as our bank manager would be only too happy to confirm.

I'm still in a foul mood when I get home, and am quite likely to lose my temper with Josh or Max, especially if they say anything flippant about PMT - so I decide it's safer to stay out of the way once we've finished dinner. I'll read the papers in bed before QT* starts. (I'm still trying to catch up on everything I missed during our so-called holiday anyway.)

Imagine my horror when I come across this article, and find I agree with almost everything in it. Not content with turning into the bearded lady, I now seem to be becoming Norman Tebbit, of all people. I can't bear it - I used to despise him almost more than anyone else in Thatch's cabinet, especially for that "On your bike" thing.

It's a good job I'm not going to conference this year. I'd probably get lynched. I wonder if there's a link between fascism and sexual frustration?

*QT - BBC Question Time. Essential viewing for MPs' staff, as the usual suspects all watch and want to discuss the next day. They obviously have nothing better to do, either.

Conspiracy Theory, Injustice and the Siege of Rothbury in all its Ghastliness.

Oh, for goodness' sake. I thought conspiracy theorists were supposed to be based outside Parliament, not be members of it. Now The Boss thinks the phones are bugged.

Not satisfied with banning Greg and I from talking to Party staff, and making us attend Friday briefings separately and on alternate weeks, now he's obsessed with listening devices.

Why does he think anyone would care what he says or does? He's still only a bloody backbencher, with no hope of ever getting promotion, especially given the recently-added extra handicap of being in opposition.

Whenever one of the phones rings while he's in the office today, he makes a dive to answer it himself, then takes the caller's number, and insists on phoning them back on his mobile. From the archive cupboard. God knows what his phone bill will be - don't think the office budget is going to cope, if he keeps this up. I shall be economising furiously at work as well as at home.

Greg doesn't seem to be having the same budgeting problems. He's wearing an Armani tie today - what the hell is that about? I thought we were supposed to look accessible, and not overdress for work? No choice on my budget. Compared to Greg's sartorial splendour, I feel like a hobo - to borrow one of Josh's many offensive expressions.

I have a horrible premonition that this feeling is going to be exacerbated a hundred times over when, or if, I ever meet up with Johnny. Probably better if I never meet him, and leave his memories of my exhibitionist younger self unspoiled by a present-day reality check.

Surgery is relatively uneventful, though depressing. Several very-disabled people worrying about what's going to happen about their benefits. The Boss provides no real reassurance as he can't resist the temptation to cast the coalition in the most terrifying light possible. They aren't any happier afterwards, when I escort them down in the lift.

I daren't leave them to find their own way out since I lost that wheelchair-bound arsonist. I hate lifts. They make me feel trapped and really panicky - a bit like I sometimes feel when Max and I seem to have so little to talk about.

There are also quite a few public sector workers fretting about possible redundancies, and someone from one of the unions, who talks tough and meets with The Boss' whole-hearted approval. The word "strike" crops up any number of times.

I hope my union will be this aggressive in my defence if I lose my job to ensure the survival of Carlotta's. I am really pissed off with her today, since The Boss told me that he'd asked her to write an article - in his name - for some publication or other, and that she could keep the £500 fee!

English isn't even her first language, and I spend my whole life writing creatively and affixing Andrew's signature to the fruits of my labours. But I am doomed to be forever in the shadows, my light firmly embedded in a bag-carrying bushel. (I can do metaphors as well as the next Spanish person, too.)

When I get home, it is to find Max brandishing an airline ticket and travel itinerary. It looks like any old itinerary - i.e. any reasonably competent person could have knocked it up on a home computer.

I make a non-committal grunt, learned from The Boss. Then Max makes a great show of writing the name of his hotel in the diary. I'm not sure what reaction this is designed to provoke, but it irritates the hell out of me. Then I feel like a conspiracy theorist.

Impending argument is prevented by Max turning on the TV, which is showing the siege of Rothbury. Live.

We both watch BBC News in horror, both at the events, and at the inanity and inappropriateness of some of John Sopel's comments. But then the man's just doing his job, which I suppose is what I'd also claim if I had to justify some of the things The Boss has had me do.

Can't help worrying that such blanket coverage may give some of our usual suspects ideas, though. Mr Beales will be polishing his shotgun right this minute, envisaging the effect notoriety will have on his business. Lucky the BBC's cameramen are better than Mr B at getting people's heads in shot, I guess - if that isn't the tackiest unintentional pun ever.

Sam arrives shortly after we have had enough of voyeurism, and have turned the TV off. I'm bloody sure Max invited him just to avoid any arguments this weekend, as I didn't know anything about his visit until last night.

It works, annoyingly, and the rest of the evening is spent cooking and eating, and generally acting like people with a social life. Josh and Connie even join in for a while, and I go to bed with an uncharacteristically warm glow. Unless I've become menopausal overnight. Anything's possible.